Angels, Demons, Asians and Vampires
by BananaNutCrunch
Summary: The sequel to a similar story involving zombies. An angel and a demon are actually minding their own business, this time, but when one member of the undead decides not to take his fate lying down, they find themselves dragged into a whirlwind of chaos yet again...
1. Introductions and Whatnot

**Have a drink, you're going to die anyway.**

* * *

Two years after the resurrection (and untimely demise) of Earth's biodegrading army, things have been more or less peaceful. But that's no fun, is it? One vampire and his lackeys are finally ready for a grand reappearance that's been a long time coming. Finally having found a way to get over his vampiric disabilities, Tino's on a mission to remind everyone exactly why they should be afraid of things that go bump in the night.

Once again, the old gang is reluctantly reunited, along with a few new additions. It's a rag-tag team for sure, but they're all the world's got. And they're going to need all the help they can get, because these vampires don't sparkle; they fucking _shine._

* * *

**The Cast**

**Team Heaven:**

Arthur

The angel in charge of carrying souls to Heaven. He's been around since before all this new-fangled Iron Age nonsense, so he's quite senior in rank (not that anyone cares). He's been trying to lie low since the whole zombie dilemma and not get into any more trouble, but, well. We'll see how that works out.

Gabriel

Also known as the Archangel of Having A Stick Up His Ass. But _somebody_ has to do the work around here, dammit! The only reason Heaven's running so smoothly is because of Gabriel's military and tactical precision. God knows they wouldn't be able to operate without him. Gabriel does not have time for your worthless Feelings, not even when the biggest Feeling of all has brown eyes and a stupid-looking curl on its head.

God

What it says on the tin, really. He says He can't be bothered with Earthly drama, but don't let that fool you. He's addicted to people-watching the way some people are addicted to daytime soaps.

Alfred

Or Al, for short. Normally he likes to do his own thing, but curious members of the public have reported that he seems to be spending a lot more time with his Dad nowadays. But what do they know? Al's only hanging around to make sure Arthur doesn't get kidnapped again. Right? Right.

**Team Hell:**

Francis

Ferryman of the river Styx. His job's a bit dead, so he indulges in Earthly pleasures to pass the time. He's been working a lot of overtime to make up for his part in the recent Almostocalypse. He's not really looking for excitement, for once, but things have a funny way of happening when least convenient, don't they?

Gilbert

Belonging to Heaven, by right, but bought off by Hell to do paperwork. After all, there's nothing more aggravating than a dyslexic trying to spell your name. Gilbert doesn't mind much, though. It's better to be an employee of Hell than it is to be one of its customers.

The Devil

The artist formerly known as Prince (of Darkness), and currently known as the CEO of Corpse Corps. He's got billions of souls under His command, but there are always the few that just won't _listen._

The Devil's Musicians

A trio of strings. They still don't speak.

Feliciano

Hell's receptionist, although he's pants at dealing with telephones. Like receptionists everywhere, he doesn't really do much. That suits him just fine.

**The Others**

Death

A pretty girl, if a bit pale. She's actually quite affable and dead polite, although people tend to get a bit anxious around Her. She doesn't understand why, though. _Life_ is the one you have to worry about.

Tino

One of the oldest bloodsuckers of all time, although you wouldn't guess from the way he smiles. He's been living in the shadows for a while now, but once he gets his soul back, rest assured, all the garlic in the world won't be able to save you.

Berwald

Dirt, holy water and a medley of incantations make for a quality golem, although whoever made Berwald might have added a little too much water. Despite his softness, he still leaves a Very Big Impression. He'd follow Tino to the ends of the earth, and maybe a little further.

The Cult

A group of Satanists who met six years ago at a Bjork concert. Right now, they also act as Tino's groupies. They're getting pretty good at incantations, although due to limited funding, they've been forced to set up shop in the basement of a ladies' salon.

Sadiq

A man who works at the ladies' salon. His guitar, dulcet tones and excellent cheekbones have made him a favourite among the patrons, although his comfortable life is about to take a turn for the weird. And where the fuck did all these cats come from?

Herakles

Gentle, handsome and introspective, Herakles is destined to become a celebrated member of the philosophical circle in a few short years, because what is life without deep thought? Life is a beautiful, complex thing, and…hang on, this isn't ancient Greece. How disconcerting. Oh well, at least there aren't any Turks.

Wang Yao

Chinese clairvoyant extraordinaire, and now the owner of a cozy little fortune-telling agency. Most of his clientele consists of little old ladies, but once in a while someone comes along bringing a whirlwind in his wake. Can't say Yao didn't see this coming.

Kiku

An unfortunate young man who has had _quite_ enough adventuring for a lifetime, thank you very much. Still, old man trouble shows mercy to no one. Why do these things always happen on Thursdays?

Im Yong Soo

Ever since Brian (whose real name is really Gilbert) left, things have been a little dull. What better way is there to stave off boredom than to get thrown headfirst into another supernaturally-themed apocalypse?

The Canadian Kid

No, whatever you're selling, he doesn't want it, alright? He's just here to watch this time.

and

The Tourist

It doesn't matter what the question is. The answer is always yes.


	2. The Prologue: A Thursday

Two people can keep a secret, if one of them is dead.

Or if one of them is a yak.

This is the principle on which The Temple operates, perched on one of the more precarious peaks of the Himalayas, in south Tibet. It's on the second highest mountain (approximately twelve feet shorter than Everest, to be exact), which is a very clever way of hiding in plain sight. Travellers looking for a challenge settle for nothing less than Everest for a climb, and anyone not gutsy enough to brave the harsh snow would attempt a much less lofty peak.

The Temple is only called The Temple. It has no other title or nickname. It does not need one, because nobody knows it exists. It is one of mankind's best-kept secrets, and it has not been on a map since the time of the Vikings. There are only two people in The Temple at any given time. One of them is, indeed, a yak.

The other one is a monk. There is always a monk at The Temple, despite how long it has been since The Temple was first set up. There is even one there now. His name is Akar. How old he is cannot be determined. Nobody knows he exists, because he has been living in the temple for almost all of his life. He has been entrusted with a very important task. He keeps a book.

It is an old book, and despite its obvious importance and need for secrecy, it is covered with no ornaments. It is written in leather and ink, having been faithfully copied by hand from the original (which was written on a stone tablet, and has since been broken up and its pieces scattered along the mountains). Its cover is withered and old. Akar cannot read what is written, because the language has long since become extinct. But he keeps the book safe nonetheless, wrapped in skins and hidden under a stone altar. He does not know what he is guarding against, but he knows it must never happen.

Akar is not lonely, even though the yak is not a very good conversationalist. Both he and the yak are of easy temperament and things are calm. People, at one time, used to say that Akar was born under a lucky star, and that his life will be a peaceful one.

They were wrong.

* * *

It is night. The sky is black and the snow is white. Everything is silent.

There are two figures hiking up the mountain. One is abnormally tall, and the other is petite, made to look even smaller standing next to his companion. This is not the first time strangers have wandered into this sacred area, but it is the first time this has happened at night. Akar cannot see very far into the darkness, so he lights a lantern and makes his way into the open to redirect these people elsewhere. He feels bad doing it, because although he knows that nobody must enter the temple, he also knows that it is dark and cold and they are probably hungry.

(He does not know how right he is.)

He approaches them. The tall one remains hooded, but the shorter one waves a hand in greeting and allows his cape to fall away from his face. Akar pauses. Something does not seem quite right, but he can't put his finger on what.

The small man comes right up to Akar, and smiles. The meagre lamplight makes him look alien, sharpens his teeth. Akar can't make out the rest of his features very well, but notes how bony and gnarled his hands look despite his youthful face.

"Hello," says the man in accented Tibetan. He has a pleasant voice.

"Good evening," replies Akar, politely. "Are you lost?"

The other man smiles wider. "Yes, I'm afraid. We came here on holiday to climb the mountains, but we may be on the wrong one."

"Travellers don't come here often. There is nobody else on this mountain. You will probably be trapped here until daybreak," replies Akar.

The man doesn't lose his smile, despite Akar's words. "I see. It's lucky that we found you when we did."

Akar falters. He really shouldn't let them in, but to turn them away would be inhumane. He sighs. "Come in, then. Life is humble here, so my home does not have much, but you're welcome to some food and warmth if you wish."

He leads them into The Temple. The big man remains silent and hooded. The small man surveys his surroundings, gaze lingering on the stone altar. Akar is becoming more nervous. He beckons them away from the main hall and into one of the smaller, warmer chambers. He swallows the niggling feeling of worry and smiles, clasping his hands together. "This is my home, gentlemen. What will you have to eat?"

"B negative," says the man smoothly.

Akar frowns. "I'm sorry?"

"B negative," the man smiles again. "It's my favourite. Although I won't complain if you don't have it. It's been a while since I last ate, and you have been a most gracious host." In the light, his teeth do not seem any less sharp.

Akar swallows. The stranger smiles.

"You know, I don't think I'm lost after all."

He lunges.


	3. Thursday Night

**I've only just realised that I clean forgot to reply to the reviews. How very rude of me, I'm sorry. Hello, Guest! Kudos for managing to track me down while being in anon. Glad to have you back for the second journey, and thanks for reviewing! **

* * *

Arthur sneezed.

He hadn't meant to. _Puppies_ sneezed, when they put their noses where they didn't belong. Humans sneezed when their frail little bodies got too cold. Trees sneezed, albeit extremely slowly, when inconsiderate birds left feathers and bits of fluff all over their branches. God sneezed too, actually, but only because the noise amused Him.

Arthur allowed himself a moment of self-directed affront. Francis laughed.

He wiped his nose indignantly and craned his neck to see any straggling human souls, ready to tell them to approach the Portals in an orderly fashion. Francis waited in his ferry some distance away. "There appear to have been more than the usual number today", he called to Arthur, who didn't turn around to shout his reply.

"It's Christmas! Holiday seasons are the worst, really."

For an angel, Arthur didn't particularly like Christmas. It wasn't that he didn't enjoy the celebration of God's metaphorical son's birthday. Jesus was a nice lad and all that, but everyone in Heaven knew that humans had been doing it on the wrong date for centuries. Arthur had asked once if this bothered him, but Jesus, bless the boy, had just been happy that anyone had thought to celebrate his birthday at all.

His toga blew a little in the wind, but Otherworldy endurance was such that one could easily stand in the same place for years and not feel a thing. He flailed his arms around a bit to displace the pigeons that had mistaken him for a perch. "Winged vermin! Look, there's a nice bloody big tree right in the middle of the bloody street with baubles and things to sit on, so get the bloody hell off of _me _why don't you! Do I look like a bloody bird bath?"

They didn't budge, but a few did spare Arthur disparaging glances. He'd always had this trouble with birds. Alfred had said that they must feel some sort of kinship with angels, what with them having similar wings and all. They never seemed to bother demons (although cats, for some reason, did). Dogs, Arthur noted, would wag their tails at anyone as long as they got a belly rub out of it.

Francis laughed at him again. Arthur bellowed at him across the snow to shut up.

"Where is your holiday spirit?" Francis replied cheerfully, stepping off his ferry. "We're done for the day, and the decorations really are spectacular this year. I hear the tavern across the road serves particularly good eggnog. We should verify this."

Arthur huffed. "Well excuse me for being high strung. Unlike you I'm actually _working_. God hasn't let me have a moment's peace since…" he trailed off and eyed Francis suspiciously. "Here, what about you? I can't imagine Beelzebub is being lenient with you. Are you not being punished?"

Francis avoided his gaze and instead set off in the direction of the aforementioned tavern. Try as he might, Arthur couldn't get a word out of him about the Devil for the rest of the day.

* * *

There's a little bookshop on a street in New York called The Plot. It sells second-hand books and dusty old tomes with cracked spines and yellow pages. The shop is owned by a man named Jeremy. It's not doing very well.

The Plot, however, has not yet gone out of business for one reason and one reason only. Its basement doubles up as both a café and a place to store the books that never get sold. This café is called The Plot Hole.

The coffee is crap and the cashier is a cheerful old man who gets everyone's orders completely wrong, but although the place is normally avoided by adults and people with good taste in coffee, the bored kids of the city flock to it like moths to a flame that conveniently looks nothing like Starbucks. It's the ironic and old-fashioned décor (which isn't so much décor as strategically used space and general lack of trying) that intrigues the ones who shy away from the mainstream. The Plot Hole has become the unofficial headquarters of the hipster population of New York.

Jeremy himself has no idea what the term "hipster" means, but that's really not the point.

One Thursday (the significance of this day is lost on most people, but to the few who know Certain Things, it is a weekly harbinger of doom), there was a young man sitting in The Plot Hole with his very tall friend, who happened to be wearing sunglasses. It was nearly ten o'clock at night, but given the usual crowd, it is possible that he only wore them to be ironic.

"I just love night time in the winter, don't you?" sighed the smaller one, leaning back in his seat and laying his iPad flat on the table. His friend said nothing. The one with the iPad smiled.

"Look at all that snow. Makes everything look perfect. Years and years and years on Earth and I'm still not sick of it." He stroked his finger lovingly across his iPad's screen. "But that just may be because the snow does such a good job of covering things up."

The tall man grunted. The smaller one smiled.

"You could try saying something once in a while, Berwald. It's a little like I'm talking to a chair."

Berwald considered this for a second. "Yes,Tino,"he said eventually.

"That's what I like about you. You always know what to say."

Berwald stayed silent. Tino laughed.

"Oh," he said suddenly, glancing at his iPad and then showing it to Berwald, who frowned at it momentarily before turning back to Tino. "Look at them, I like them. There are just three of them. That will take some getting used to, but it's just so much more _efficient_. I don't even know what we were thinking in the old days. I mean sure, a big old following has _pizazz_, but they can be unruly. I like that word, don't you?_ Pizazz._"

He pursed his lips. "Tacky website, though. It's like I'm looking into the inky black asshole of Cthulhu. But, well. It's better than the Official Temple of Satan, at least. And look oh, Berwald, look, they're all _blonde. _How adorable. I want them."

Berwald grunted. Tino continued scrolling.

"They spend every Saturday night at the same bar," he pursed his lips. "How dull. Although, people do tend to be, don't they? Well. We'll take care of that, I think. Come on, you big gorilla."

He stood and Berwald followed. Tino tucked the iPad into his coat, tossing far too much money on the table to pay for the frappuchinos they hadn't touched. Berwald held the door open as Tino waved to the old man behind the counter. They stepped out into the snowy street and Tino stretched his arms and sighed, watching the traffic and people go past with a smile on his face.

"Look at all that white," he said. "Completely unblemished. Makes me want to stain it."

"Yes?"

Tino grinned. "Yes. Maybe with red. I _like_ red."

* * *

**About four years ago, Era (senderunknown) and I created The Plot as the basis of a cute group of characters. We never continued it. Shame, really. **

**If you clean your ears while bathing, it is wet. **

**Reviews are appreciated. Have a nice day!**


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